


forget the invitations (marry me)

by restlesslikeme



Series: ribs verse [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Background pre Bill/Mike, Destination Wedding, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie vs the Iguana, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Losers Club Family Vacation, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Wedding Planning, background ben/bev, sequel if you squint, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 03:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlesslikeme/pseuds/restlesslikeme
Summary: “Right,” Richie replies, already distracted by the plate of tiny cake slices making its way towards the table. There’s a flute of champagne that he’s been eyeing up, and he reaches for it, throwing it back in hopes that it will be refilled before he’s finished with the taste test. “Why are we spending money on a cake you won’t eat again?"--Richie and Eddie are getting married; The Losers Club gets a well deserved tropical vacation.





	forget the invitations (marry me)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to m'love @pepperprints for listening to me babble about this endlessly.  
this is [technically a sequel](http://https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799029), although you won't be lost if you read this before its predecessor.
> 
> title from the song _archie, marry me_ by alvvays

“Richie!”

In the office on the upper floor of the penthouse, Richie closes his eyes. This is Eddie’s room, technically -- Eddie needs an office more than he does, and it’s tucked away from the rest of the house enough that he can come in here and work without having to listen to Richie rehearse. That had been a prime selling point of this place in particular when they’d been looking to buy; the way this section was broken up enough to provide a little bit of privacy.

Lately, the tables have turned, and Richie has been the one hiding out in here. The problem is that no amount of space between the office and the living room seems to be enough to block out Eddie when he shouts like that. It’s enough to muffle Richie telling himself bad jokes, sure, but Eddie is a very determined person. He will absolutely do everything in his power to be heard. 

“Richie!”

Wincing, Richie rubs fingers against his eye sockets and counts to ten in his head. Maybe if he’s quiet enough, Eddie will just give up. That’s the dream. Maybe he’ll think that Richie can’t hear him. 

“I know you’re ignoring me up there, motherfucker.”

Groaning, Richie pushes himself out from the desk, taking a glance around the room for anything Eddie might possibly be looking for. The entire house has been taken over by wedding prep, and this room is absolutely no different. Still, it’s impossible to guess what part of that Eddie is hyperfixating on at any given moment, so his chances of grabbing the right thing are slim to none.

Making his way to the top of the stairs, Richie leans over the bannister. Below him, Eddie stands with hands on his hips. There’s about ten swatches of near identical fabric spread out around him, and he’s staring furiously up at where Richie lounges with his elbows over the railing.

“Hi,” Richie says. “What’s the crisis of the day.”

“I’m missing the black one,” Eddie says, gesturing to the hurricane of silk around him as if it should be obvious. “Were you moving shit around again?”

As far as Richie can tell, every single piece of fabric draped over the couch and on the coffee table is black. All of them. 

“You mean that one?” Richie answers, picking a random swatch and pointing to it. In the back of his mind, he’s trying to remember if he did in fact, toss some swatches around. There’s a lot of scraps of material all over his house right now, and all of them seem to be for different things. Yesterday he found a foot of bright green tulle shoved into his sock drawer -- their colors are navy and gold.

“That’s Midnight Sky!” Eddie answers, frowning at the piece Richie pointed out. “I said _ black. _B - L - A - C - K. Do you need to get your eyes checked again? Do you need a prescription change?”

“Yeah, my eyes are definitely the problem here.”

“Richie!”

“Okay!” Throwing his hands up in defeat, he backs away from the railing. “I’ll go look for another identical square of fabric. What are we doing with those anyways? Are we making a dozen tuxedos for mice? I thought we were wearing blue.”

“So no one else should wear anything?” Eddie says, his voice floating up the stairs to where Richie has moved into the bedroom. “Because we have _ our _ colors picked out, fuck the wedding party, right?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Richie mutters under his breath, making eye contact with the little dog flopped on their bed. She blinks at him, watching intently as Richie pulls open a drawer, shuffling through different embossed stationery, stamps, and various spools of ribbon in his search. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Stop shit talking me to Penelope!” Eddie calls, and Richie groans, rolling his eyes toward her.

“Your father is insane,” Richie tells her in a hushed voice. “I - N - S - A - N -E.” 

From her comfortable little spot on the bed, Penelope wags her tail. At least she’s on his side. 

\--

It’s not that Richie hates wedding planning, or even that he’s apathetic about the whole event. There have been a few times in his life where he’s had to listen to people talk about this whole process -- mostly women -- and it’s always struck him as shitty how little input the groom seems to have in the whole thing. Whether that’s by design or by choice varies, obviously, but Richie never figured it would be a problem for him.

For a good (bad) period of his life, Richie didn’t really figure on getting married at all, but that’s besides the point.

The problem as far as he can tell, is that Eddie’s idea of planning a wedding consists mostly of making both of them as miserable as possible. He sniffs out fun like a bloodhound and then steers them both in the completely opposite direction. On more than one occasion, Richie has wondered if it’s some kind of self-inflicted punishment for being on his second marriage.

So far he’s had the common sense not to ask if that’s the case, but he’s getting closer to snapping as the weeks go by.

“I can’t eat any of these,” Eddie reminds him, reaching over to spread a napkin across Richie’s lap like he’s a five year old. “So I need you to really pay attention to the different flavour notes.”

“Right,” Richie replies, already distracted by the plate of tiny cake slices making its way towards the table. There’s a flute of champagne that he’s been eyeing up, and he reaches for it, throwing it back in hopes that it will be refilled before he’s finished with the taste test. “Why are we spending money on a cake you won’t eat again?”

“I’m not going to force our guests to conform to my dietary restrictions,” Eddie replies. “Besides, this is the top-reviewed place on that wedding blog I’ve been following and we were lucky to get a booking with them.”

The tray is set down in front of them, and Richie is only half listening as the guy describes the spread. Enough that he gets the rundown, obviously: vanilla with raspberry, vanilla with lemon, red velvet with amaretto, dark chocolate with coffee buttercream. His champagne flute is refilled. 

“Okay,” Richie replies patiently, using his fork to cut into a piece of cake. Eddie watches him expectantly as he raises it to his mouth. “But it’s your wedding,” he continues, talking around the bite. “You have to eat the cake at your own wedding, Eds, that’s like, a big fun part. I’m supposed to smush it into your face.”

Eddie looks a little wistful, and for a moment Richie thinks he’s broken through. Then he waves him off, folding his hands in front of him as he speaks.

“How’s that one?” Eddie asks, as if he’s above the argument altogether. “How does it taste?”

“Why don’t you try it and find out?” Richie raises his fork in offering. Eddie shakes his head. “Come on! They’re gluten free, I heard the guy say it. It’s good!”

“I’m not eating that.”

Richie shuffles his chair closer, getting himself within proximity to wiggle the fork obnoxiously in Eddie’s face. “Yes you are; you have to. It’s bad luck. Or something. Open your mouth.” 

“Are you trying to send me into anaphylactic shock?” Eddie asks. “They don’t guarantee against cross-contamination here. You know I can’t swallow anything that’s even come in contact with a nut.” 

The realization of what he’s said, the opportunity he’s handed to Richie on a silver platter, comes too late. Horror crosses his face and Richie is already sinking his teeth in: “Really,” Richie deadpans, barely keeping a straight face. “That’s not what you told me last night.” 

“Are you kidding me right now?” Eddie asks coldly. “You know how much tickets cost to be here and that’s how you’re gonna be?”

“What?” Richie asks innocently, advancing his fork ever closer. “I’m not doing anything. I’m just correcting you about all the nuts you’ve swallowed.” 

“You’re disgusting. Don’t -- Richie! You--” Eddie cuts himself off, swatting at him as Richie tries to force the cake into his mouth.

“Try it,” Richie insists, “C’mon, try it, c’mon, here comes the airpl--”

“Stop!” Eddie hisses, firmly forcing his arm down with finality. “Stop.” 

Richie lets his arm drop, the fork still clutched in his fingers as they stare each other down. He’s not getting anything from Eddie -- no twitch in the corner of his mouth, or raise of his eyebrows. No sign of relenting whatsoever, and finally Richie sighs.

“Whatever man, have it your way,” he says, raising his free arm to signal the server. “Can we get more champagne, please? I need it to wash down all this cake that I’m eating alone.”

He absolutely does not describe the notes of flavour in any detail. Instead Richie eats four tiny slices of cake by himself while Eddie stares at him, and makes it through two more glasses of champagne. 

“Is this what happened to your last wife?” Richie asks, annoyance making him particularly obnoxious. “The whole allergy thing is just a ploy to get me stuffed on sweets, right. You’ve got a type and you’re trying to make me fit into it. Next thing I know you’re gonna cancel our gym memberships.”

“I did cancel your gym membership,” Eddie tells him bluntly. “Because you don’t use it.”

“I knew it,” Richie says, eating more nonetheless. “You just want me for my body.” 

Eddie moves, and Richie shuts up for once. There’s a good chunk of cake left on Richie’s plate, and Eddie prods it with his fork as if considering, as if he’s finally caved... and Richie grins, ready to praise him for it, but he’s quickly silenced by Eddie shoving cake into his face. He’s slow and determined about it: smearing custard over his cheek, rubbing thick, creamy icing over the stubble on his jaw. 

“Yeah,” Eddie deadpans, using the other side of Richie’s face like a napkin for his sticky fingers. “You’re right; that is fun.” 

\--

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

Sprawled backwards on an opulent (but very comfortable) sofa in the Hanscom-Marsh living room, Richie gives a drawn out groan. That’s Ben’s answer to everything, and while it’s always well-intentioned it isn’t always helpful. It isn’t his fault -- Richie is pretty sure that conflict doesn’t exist in Ben’s post-Derry world. In his rosy version of life, there’s probably very little that isn’t fixed by just talking about it.

Ben and Bev are master communicators. Richie could be jealous, if it weren’t so ridiculously saccharine and boring.

“What am I supposed to say?” Richie complains. “_Hey Eddie, you’ve been a real bitch since we decided to get hitched. Maybe you should take the stick out of your ass and enjoy it. _Yeah I’m sure that’d go over great, Ben.”

“That does sound like you,” Bev muses from above him, resting the bottom of a beer bottle directly on Richie’s forehead. He jumps at the cold of it, arms flailing, and she cackles, pulling it away just in time and offering it out as he sits up. Wiping condensation off his face, Richie accepts. 

“I just don’t even feel like he wants to do it,” he continues with a frown. “Like, maybe the getting married part, I dunno, he was happy when I asked. We talked about it. But the actual wedding shit? It’s like he’s going out of his way to make it hell on earth.” 

Taking a miserable sip of his beer, Richie sighs. “You know, not to disrespect the dead, but I was so, _ so_ relieved that his mom wasn’t alive to torment us through this whole thing. And now apparently it doesn’t matter, since with the way that dipshit’s been acting lately it seems like she must have possessed the last of her bloodline just to fuck with me, specifically. I’ll never escape her.” 

“Rich,” Ben chides, and Richie ignores him. 

“We’re not even having fun fighting about it.”

Bev settles onto the couch next to him, crossing her legs up underneath herself as she considers. Not for the first time, Richie is grateful (if a little perplexed) that they all somehow managed to get rich after leaving Derry. The fact that Bev has a west coast house for Richie to whine in instead of having to call her on the phone is extraordinarily convenient, when the timing lines up and permits for it. 

“_Does _ he want to do it?” Bev asks, frowning, flapping her hand at him quickly when Richie’s expression turns horrified. “No no no, not get married. I mean does he want to have a wedding? Eddie’s already done all this. Maybe it’s bringing up bad feelings. You know -- stressing him out more than he realizes.”

“He’s the one that took the reins on the whole planning thing,” Richie admits, scrubbing a hand back through his hair. “I just kind of assumed that’s what he wanted, since he jumped on it right away.”

“Gee,” says Ben from across the room. “It’s almost like you should talk to him about it.”

Richie flips him off.

\--

He picks Eddie up from work because they have a meeting to go to about linens. That in itself is kind of a ridiculous concept to Richie, but it’s another thing that he’s letting go. He could have done the linen meeting on his own, but Eddie insisted that he be present since he apparently doesn’t trust Richie to color match without him. Whatever.

“I’ve literally been stressed out about this all day,” is the first thing out of Eddie’s mouth as he gets into the passenger seat. “Did you remember to bring the book?”

In the backseat of the car there’s a scrapbook stuffed to the brim with all of their samples. Paint strips, fabric swatches, reference photos... it’s got all of it. It’s another thing that sort of makes Richie feel melancholy -- to look at it you’d think it was lovingly assembled, the two of them picking things out and pinning them away, hopeful and full of plans. Instead, Eddie has treated it like one of his work portfolios. There’s barely any sentiment attached to the stupid thing at all.

“I remembered it,” Richie answers. “It’s back there.”

Turning around in his seat without undoing his belt, Eddie reaches for it. He sets the book on his lap, flipping past meticulously sorted sections until he gets to the table settings page. 

“Where’s the napkin sample?” he asks, and the tone in his voice sends dread up the back of Richie’s neck.

“Should be in there,” Richie answers. “I just grabbed the book. It was in the bedroom.”

“Obviously it should be in there, asshole,” Eddie snaps. “I’m asking because it isn’t. So where is it? How am I supposed to match anything if I don’t have the napkins? That’s _ literally _what goes ontop of the table cloth.”

“Yeah I know how napkins work,” Richie answers. “I don’t know, flip through the book. I didn’t go through and sabotage your fucking table setting page, it must have just gotten loose or something. Check in the back.”

“It isn’t in here. We have to go home.”

“I’m not going home to dig around for a napkin,” Richie answers. “I was emailing the guy like two days ago, he already has the colors set out from when you met up with him the first time so I really don’t think it’s going to matter that much whether we have it to show him again. It’ll be fine. Look--” Riche lets one hand off the wheel to gesture vaguely at another white cloth jammed into the book. “There’s another sample in there. Just use that one.” 

“That one’s for the dress shirts,” Eddie reminds.

“Yeah, and it can be for napkins too, right?” 

There’s several seconds of silence, which never means anything good. Richie takes his eyes off the road and he’s met with Eddie giving him the coldest look of his entire life. 

“The dress shirts are alabaster,” Eddie tells him gravely.

“Okay. And?”

“I can’t believe you,” Eddie says, as if Richie is murdering him here in this car. As he speaks, his voice gets sharper, picking up speed. “The napkins are eggshell. You can’t put an alabaster napkin on top of an eggshell tablecloth. Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what that would look like?”

“Like a rabbit in a snowstorm, probably?” Richie guesses. 

“Jesus Christ, Richie,” Eddie says. “What is wrong with you! This is a fucking _ disaster -- _” There’s a waver in Eddie’s voice under the hiked up pitch. That’s what gives him away as being sincerely, genuinely upset past his usual state of bickering, and Richie shoots a perplexed stare at him from behind the wheel. 

“What’s wrong with _ me,_” Richie repeats incredulously. “What the hell is wrong with _ you _. You’re on the verge of tears over a tablecloth. Do you understand that? Do you hear yourself right now?”

There’s a supermarket coming up on the driver’s side and Richie hits his signal, pulling into the lot and driving to the back where there aren’t any cars. He puts them in park.

“What-- what are you doing,” Eddie says. “You want us to show up unprepared _ and _late? Are you fucking with me right now Rich?”

“Are you happy?” Richie asks abruptly, turning the key and shutting the engine off.

Surprise shuts Eddie up, and he blinks, his mouth hanging open mid-argument.

Richie’s drums his thumb against the steering wheel, and he continues.

“Ever since we started doing this you seem --” he hesitates, watching Eddie before continuing. “You don’t _ seem _ happy. I get that this shit is stressful, but are you enjoying any of it at all Eds? ‘Cause I gotta say, you seem miserable like, all the time. You’re definitely making _ me _miserable.”

Eddie huffs out a dry laugh, shaking his head, and he rubs a hand over his face.

“That’s what planning a wedding is, Richie,” he answers tiredly, as if the answer is obvious. “You’re miserable the entire time leading up to it, then it happens so fast you can’t even remember what you just spent the last year doing. It’s fine.”

“That sounds fucking awful,” Richie laughs disbelievingly. “Is that why you’re being such a nightmare? Is that what you think this is supposed to be like?” 

“I’m just trying to make sure everything goes right,” Eddie snaps back. “Sorry if that’s cramping your style, but there’s a lot of shit that needs to get done, okay?”

“Cool,” Richie answers. “But you didn’t answer the question. Are you enjoying literally anything about this? Are you even looking forward to the wedding? Is any of this making you happy?”

“Yes,” Eddie insists, and he’s a poor liar. “A lot of things.”

“Good. Great to hear it. Name one thing.”

The corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches, and then he bows his head, brow furrowing. “I liked shoving cake into your stupid face,” he admits, at length.

“We don’t need to plan a whole wedding just so you can shove cake in my face.” Richie nods at the supermarket, unlatching his seatbelt. “I can go buy one of those frozen Pepperidge Farm abominations right now.”

“I still want to marry you, asshole,” Eddie clarifies sharply. “That’s the whole point.” 

“Okay, but do you need all this shit?” Richie stresses. “The catering and the eggshell napkins or whatever? Because honestly I... don’t. Like if it’ll make you happy, then I’m all for it. But I’d be just as happy like, saying some vows and signing something and then partying with our friends. As long as I get to marry you, that’s all I care about.”

The car feels tense in the silence that follows and Richie waits, watching. There’s a fleeting moment where Eddie raises his hand as if to reach for his inhaler, then realizes it isn’t there and drops it again instead. His expression in his eyes is unreadable, and Richie can tell he’s working the inside of his lip with his teeth.

“Can we -- can we even do that?” he asks finally, looking at Richie uncertainly. “Is that an option?”

“Oh my god,” Richie laughs, relief flooding through him. “Yes, you moron.” 

When he reaches over, slotting his hand into its spot at the side of Eddie’s face, Eddie seems to melt under the touch. It’s the loosest he’s looked in _ months,_ Richie thinks, like all the pressure just drained out of him. He draws him closer across the console, leaning in to press their mouths together, and Eddie sighs.

“Fuck a wedding,” Richie says. “Let’s just get on a plane and go somewhere. We’ve already got the suits, right? We can just set something up online and do one of those resort ceremonies. This shit’s stupid.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asks, studying Richie’s face in that way he does when he needs to make sure Richie isn’t just indulging him. “You mean that?”

“_Yes,” _Richie says emphatically. “I would way rather sit on a beach with you and drink tequila than answer another thirty emails about chairs. Let’s just take off together.” 

“We’re gonna lose a bunch of deposits,” Eddie sighs, but he doesn’t actually sound that upset about it. “And my extended family is gonna shit.”

For the first time since they started planning, Richie actually starts to feel excited.

\--

They break it to Richie’s parents first, because they’re the only ones that Richie thinks might be disappointed. The only ones that matter, anyways -- their guest list is long, but aside from his immediate family, there’s only four other people whose opinions he cares about, and he’s not really worried about their reaction.

To his surprise, it goes over a lot smoother than he’d been expecting.

“Well the whole black tie event didn’t exactly seem like you,” his dad laughs, his voice a little garbled by the Derry internet connection. “This makes a lot more sense. Are we still invited?”

“Of course!” Eddie jumps in before Richie can answer, shuffling closer at the kitchen table to get in view of the camera. Richie’s heart feels dumb and warm about the whole thing -- little details of domestic safety making him weak at the knees. As his parents smile at them over a blocky video call, and Eddie’s hand finds his leg under the table, he abruptly feels incredibly lucky.

“We’re thinking about going down for a couple of weeks,” Eddie continues. “But we don’t expect anyone else to stay that long. We can email you the details once we have them. It’ll be a lot smaller, but it’s important that you’re there.”

“I’m gonna cover your trip,” Richie says, waving his mother off as she tsks at him. “I am! It’s a big deal! Listen -- we’ve got about 200 people we have to cancel on and about that many deposits to try and sweet talk my way out of, so I’m gonna let you go, but -- we’ll talk soon, okay? I love you guys. I’m so glad you’re not pissed.”

The call ends, and Richie flops his head to the side, leaning into Eddie’s shoulder and letting out an exhale. 

With a goading grin, Eddie says, “They really are just resigned to you being a fuck up, huh?”

“At least I’m a rich and famous fuck up,” Rchie snorts, rubbing his face into Eddie’s sweater sleeve. “Besides, they’ve had a lifetime to get used to it. Now that that’s over with, you wanna look at packages? I bookmarked a bunch of shit this afternoon while I was supposed to be working.”

“Fuck up,” Eddie points out, but he clicks into the links anyways.

\--

“This meeting of the Losers Club is now officially in session.”

“You don’t have to say that every time we hang out,” Bill points out, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans back in his seat as Penelope -- the little floozy -- hops onto his lap and immediately curls up on his legs. His phone is resting on the coffee table on speaker, to keep Mike in the loop from across the country.

“I don’t, I only say it when it’s an official meeting,” Richie argues. “So that everyone’s on the same page. This _ is _ an official meeting, so I have to say it -- we’ve just been having more of those than usual because of wedding shit. Which coincidentally is _ also _the topic of today’s shindig.”

“Boooo,” says Mike from the iphone. 

Richie raises his eyebrows expectantly at Eddie, who stands in the center of the room and clears his throat. They’d agreed that Eddie should be the one to announce things for a few reasons, first and foremost because Richie figured that the others would probably take him more seriously, which would save them the run around of convincing everybody that they weren’t joking. 

The second reason being that Eddie is the one who’s been driving everyone up the fucking wall with the planning, so it seems like suitable punishment to have him tell them it was all for nothing.

“Well?” Bev asks, although the furtive look she shoots Richie is awfully knowing. Asshole.

Eddie takes a deep breath, then in one big exhale, says: “We’re calling off the wedding.”

Richie can feel the grin starting to pull at his cheeks before anyone has even had a chance to react.

“I cancelled the venue and the catering and all of the linen rentals and we got our deposit back from the florist,” Eddie continues in a rush. There’s a flush of pink creeping up his neck towards his cheeks. “I’ve decided I fucking hate wedding planning and I never want to do it again.”

“Well, that’s a shocker,” Ben observes, and he raises his hands disarmingly when Eddie scowls at him. “I’m just saying! You haven’t exactly been glowing through this whole process, Eddie.”

“It’s true,” Bill agrees. 

“Yeah, try living with it,” Richie mutters. 

“I wish you’d waited like, another couple weeks though,” Ben continues, giving a sad glance to Bev, who’s holding her hand out and smirking. With a sigh, Ben fishes out his wallet from his back pocket and withdraws a twenty dollar bill, smacking it into her waiting palm. 

Bill bursts out laughing. Eddie, who was already looking embarrassed enough, has turned the same color as Bev’s hair. After a split second of speechlessness, Richie has to cover his face with both hands, his own shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. 

“You were making bets on our relationship?” Eddie accuses. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not the relationship!” Bev protests, folding up her winnings and tucking it away into the back of her phone case. “I would never. Just the actual wedding part. Now are you doing courthouse or elopement -- answer carefully, because it could double me up.”

“You guys are assholes,” Richie laughs, pulling Eddie down into his lap before he combusts on the spot. “Shit. Elopement. Kind of.” He grins. “Is it still an elopement if we bring all of you with us?”

\--

They decide on Costa Rica for the destination, because Eddie thinks that the beaches look cleanest on the travel agency website, and because Richie’s already gotten drunk in both Cuba and Mexico in his life. The initial phone call to get the process moving takes about fifteen minutes -- they’re connected to a perky but sincere sounding agent named Kerri, who congratulates them on the engagement and then forwards them a menu where they can fill out how they want the day to go.

In his pajama pants, with the laptop on the bed between them, and the dog flopped lazily out against his side, Richie can’t help but wonder why they weren’t doing this months ago.

“Okay,” says Eddie, peering at the options on the screen. “Ready?”

“Mhm,” Richie hums, scrubbing fingers along Penelope’s belly. “Hit me.”

“For the ceremony, do we want an arch, or whatever this ugly lattice thing is?”

“Wow,” he grins. “As difficult as you make that decision sound, I’m gonna go with arch.”

Eddie clicks off the box.

“Okay, private dinner indoors or outdoors?” Eddie asks next. “Oh, that’s optional. Do we want to do dinner?”

Maybe it’s just that tablecloths have left a sour taste in his mouth, but Richie makes an uncertain noise.

“The resort will have a buffet,” he reasons.

Eddie clicks no.

“Flowers -- white, yellow, or blue?”

“Lemme see the pictures,” Richie leans forward to peer at the screen. Blue and yellow both look like something that belong in an old lady’s bathroom, and he makes a face. “Yellow looks like that gross couch in your mom’s basement. White will look nice with the suits?”

It’s like a quiz. There’s about fifty questions in total, and some of them are so ridiculous that Richie can’t help but sidetrack the whole process by mocking them: _ Who loves seashells enough to carry a conch instead of a bouquet? Do people seriously pay to have potted palm trees set all over the place -- you’re in the tropics! _It takes them about half an hour to fill the whole thing out, and by the end of it, Richie finds that he’s a little disappointed that there aren’t more questions.

“Okay,” Eddie says, hovering the cursor over the submit button. He raises his eyebrows, and Richie nods affirmatively.

“Look at that,” Richie says, as _ Order Confirmed! _pops up on the screen. He nudges Eddie with his arm. “We just planned a wedding, Eds.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, short and a little disbelieving as he stares at the screen. When he turns his head to look at Richie, his eyes look a little shiny, the smile still stuck on his face like he can’t quite banish it. Richie beams back at him.

“Hey,” Eddie reaches forward, tugging at the faded old tshirt that hangs off of Richie’s frame. “We’re getting married.” 

“Yeah,” Richie agrees.

“Like... we’re actually getting _ married _, Rich,” Eddie repeats, like it’s just sinking in for the first time. His hands are on Richie’s face now, palms flat against Richie’s smiling cheeks as he looks at him. “Holy shit.” 

Without looking away, Richie reaches forward and closes the laptop, sliding it further down the bed. Eddie shuffles closer, still framing the stupid grin that Richie can’t get rid of, and when he leans in and presses their mouths together Richie can feel him smiling too.

“I love you,” Eddie mumbles, wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck and holding on tight. “I’m so excited. I didn’t realize I’d feel so excited.”

“Wow,” Richie says. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special, Kaspbrak.”

“You know what I mean,” Eddie scoffs, pinching him. “You’re going to drive me fucking crazy whether we’re married or not -- I just didn’t think the actual... wedding thing would feel like this.”

“I’m excited too,” Richie admits. “I’m glad you are. You feel better about it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, huffing out a laugh. “Yeah, I do.” 

\--

**[ i grew up in derry, maine and all i got was this stupid clown trauma ]**

**Eds: **Ok, so I just forwarded everyone the event link. It’s a block of rooms so we’ll all be in the same section of the resort. The link expires Friday, so everyone has to book before that. 

**Eds: **Forwarded flight details too.

**bev: **gotcha.

**mikey:** *thumbs up emoji*

**trashmouth!: **i put my parents in the other half of the resort cuz i plan on getting laid for 2 weeks straight and i’m not the only person in this gc who can’t shut up if ykwim

**ben: **hahahahaha

**Bill: **Gross.

**Eds: **Please die.

**mikey: **in that case can i room with your parents?

**[ trashmouth! changed the group name: ** ** _groom squad 2k20 _ ** **]**

**Eds: **Nope.

**[ Eds changed the group name: ** ** _losers club _ ** **]**

**trashmouth!: **:(

**trashmouth!: **i’d also like to remind everyone that if any of you use my wedding to propose to each other, i’m legally allowed to kill you.

**trashmouth!: **looking at you b-team.

**ben: **roger that.

**mikey: **somehow i don’t think that would hold up in a court of law

**trashmouth!: **it’s island law. it’s different. 

**trashmouth!: **like the law of the sea. or the wild.

**mikey: **that’s fair.

**Bill: **Wait am I included in b-team?

**Eds:** Idk dude are you planning on proposing to anyone??????

**trashmouth!: **we all know you’re in a dry streak billy you don’t have to pretend.

**bev:** room booked!

**Bill: **Hey Mikey, want to bunk together?

**trashmouth!:** ???

**ben: **?

**Eds:** Did they not block us enough rooms? I’ll call.

**t****rashmouth!:** those alimony payments really hittin you hard bill?

**bev: **don’t be mean guys, his last book only went #2 on the bestseller list, he’s having a tough time rn.

**ben:** the struggle is real.

\--

“I’m worried they’re going to try and put Penelope in the back of the plane,” Eddie says for the third time, as the five of them make their way through LAX. He’s trailing two huge rolling suitcases behind him, and that’s not mentioning the smaller duffel bag strapped to his chest, or even smaller carry-on strapped to the biggest piece of luggage.

“They aren’t going to put her in the back,” Richie says again. Penelope is at the top of a laundry list of airport anxieties they’ve covered today. He’s about one conversation away from popping a few of Eddie’s Xanax in the bathroom and just conking out. Let Ben drag his prone body onto the plane -- the dude works out enough. “I like, triple checked about the carrier. Then I called the airline this morning and checked again.”

“What if there’s other dogs on in our section?” Eddie persists. “And they’re over the dog limit and we’re the last ones to board and they have to put her in the back?”

“Then we’ll change our flight.”

Both Bill and Ben shoot him a look, and Richie throws the hand not currently attached to an (airline approved) dog crate up in the air. 

“They’re not going to put her in the back so it’s irrelevant!”

Realistically, Richie would absolutely change flights before sending Penelope away to cargo. He’s heard the horror stories, and secretly he doesn’t intend to let her out of his sight until she’s safely adjusted in the air conditioned suite they’ll be calling home for the next two weeks.

He’s happy enough to let Eddie take the shit for being a helicopter dog parent, though, especially after the bullying he got for having to stop and sign autographs as they were trying to get into the building.

“I still can’t believe you brought her,” Bev says, shaking her head, as if Penelope hasn’t been a roadie for every Trashmouth tour for the last two years. She’s pulling a reasonably sized plastic suitcase, and has swapped her purse for a beach bag, but Richie suspects that half of Ben’s luggage might not actually be his. “Has anyone heard from Mike?”

“He’s on track to meet us in Houston,” Bill replies. “I talked to him this morning.”

“Then onwards to the beach,” Ben grins. 

“Yeah you really need to work on your tan,” Richie drawls. “It’d do wonders for your looks, Haystack. I can’t have your ugly ass in pictures looking like that.”

Bev swats him over the head. 

“You guys --” Eddie says. “Are we sure she’s not too heavy to count as carry on? Should I weigh the carrier again just in case?”

\--

Penelope does not get banished to cargo. Instead she sits happily in her carrier underneath Eddie’s feet for the entire flight, while Richie resists the urge to check on her every half hour. The five of them spend the majority of the flight playing cards and talking shit, although Bill seems a little distracted by his phone. 

“Is she your service dog?” a flight attendant asks kindly, leaning over Eddie as she pours Richie’s third rye and ginger of the flight. “We’re seeing a lot of emotional support animals flying with people these days.”

From the seat across the aisle, Bill chokes on his water, using a napkin to cover up his laughter.

“If she’s an emotional support dog she’s fucking terrible at her job,” Richie answers flatly, playing it straight in favour of acknowledging how Eddie frowns in the seat next to him. “Her performance review is coming up, actually, and we’re pretty sure we’re gonna have to let her go.”

The attendant does not think he’s funny.

They meet up with Mike in Houston for the only layover. Travel seems to suit him. His smiles are warm and quick to appear, and he doesn’t look like he’s constantly checking over his shoulder. It’s nice. Having everyone together again always makes Richie feel a certain way, but the added anticipation of the wedding seems to amplify it, leaving him feeling happy and whole.

He sleeps on the last leg of the trip, nodding off to the buzz of his friends chatting around him, and the warmth of Eddie’s hand in his.

\--

It takes checking into the resort for Richie to realize that they’ve never actually taken a real vacation together. Work has him travelling a lot, and most of the time Eddie is with him, working remotely from hotel rooms and from the tour bus, so Richie kind of figured that amounted to the same thing. Realizing that they’re here with next to nothing on the itinerary though (well, except the big thing) has him reconsidering.

“You want to break the bed in?” Richie asks, bouncing up and down on the mattress testingly while Eddie sets up Penelope’s crate at the other end of the room. 

“I haven’t checked it for bedbugs yet,” Eddie tells him. “Get the fuck up.”

It’s proof of Eddie’s lasting formative influence that Richie finds that a little sexy. He got into Richie’s brain too early and mushed stuff around, and now all Richie’s wires are crossed into being turned on by weird shit. He still remembers the first time, waiting on that bed in Derry while Eddie did god knows what in the bathroom and then refused to touch him until his dick was wrapped up. 

Afterall, they hadn’t seen each other in ten years, and Richie would spend another ten in the closet. It was reasonable for Eddie to play things safe. Less reasonable for him to have been that stocked, given the circumstances, but that’s Eddie.

That first time is a top five moment in Richie’s sex life, and all things considered, his history isn’t exactly boring. The other four also involve Eddie, which probably means Richie’s bias is showing. 

“I paid way too much fucking money for this room for there to be bedbugs,” Richie protests, the way he always does, but he stands up and watches Eddie pull on a pair of disposable rubber gloves anyways. It’s hot. 

“One day you’re going to thank me,” Eddie says, pressing along the edges of the mattress to check between the bedframe, then digging fingers underneath to check there too. “I’m terrified to think of all the disgusting shit you touched before I showed up.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your mother that way,” Richie chides, and Eddie groans in response. Finding the place satisfactory, he peels off the gloves and tosses them into the wastebasket next to the bed. 

“I really thought you might grow out of that,” Eddie says. “Figured it was probably a symptom of your interalized homophobic bullshit, but here you are, no longer repressed and still a total jackass.”

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Richie grins. 

“It’s kind of impressive.”

Eddie’s hands are warm when they find Richie’s shoulders, leaning him back into the mattress and climbing up over him. His knees are on either side of Richie’s hips, and he looks down from where he straddles him, resting his full weight down ontop of him. There’s a slow burn starting low in Richie’s gut, a lazy, fond kind of arousal, and he fits his thumbs in against the curve of Eddie’s hipbone as he stares up at him.

“It is tradition,” Eddie suggests, and Richie loves him, loves him, loves him.

“I told the others we’d meet up for dinner, which gives us at least an hour,” his hands are moving up, fingers unfastening the buttons of Eddie’s shirt one by one until he can slide out of it. He palms the pale scar that takes up most of Eddie’s side as the shirt falls away, following the shape of it. “Plus like, we’re getting married this week, so fuck ‘em, right.”

Eddie leans over him, cards fingers back through the mess of Richie’s hair against the pillow, and says: “Yeah dude, that’s not who I was planning on fucking.”

Anticipation curls hot in his veins, and Richie laughs.

\--

The resort grounds are nice. Like, the place was expensive enough and well reviewed and the photos were beautiful, yada yada yada, but Richie still keeps finding himself thinking that the place is fucking _ nice. _The room is sort of modern and open concept, the grounds are well kept, and more than once Richie catches Ben admiring the architecture of the whole place like the total nerd that he is. 

Breakfast is taken on a sprawling patio overlooking the beach, sort of half covered in by a high awning where the buffet is served. Richie’s not drunk -- it’s 10am -- but he is drinking a mimosa and sort of loosely content in the way that reminds him he got dicked down the night before. The food is good and the sun is out, warm on his hair and the back of shoulders. 

Across from him, Eddie is wearing a stupid sunhat with his lounging clothes, and those ugly ass designer slide-on sandals he loves. Vacation Eddie looks like Nathan Lane in _ The Birdcage _ and Richie is _ absurdly _ fond him. He’s been mentally making a list of every other tropical location he wants to take him after this, daydreaming about it every time Eddie pulls out another flowy, obnoxious pastel shirt to protect his arms from the sun. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, staring intently at something over Richie’s shoulder. “Rich. There’s a big fucking lizard over there. 

Richie brings a chunk of breakfast potato to his mouth, says: “Yeah, there are lizards here.”

The face that Eddie makes in response is somewhat nullified by the fact that he won’t pull his eyes away from the alleged lizard to scowl at Richie directly. He narrows his gaze at the middle distance instead, and Richie sighs, turning slightly to peer back through his prescription sunglasses.

There is indeed a lizard: a big, lazy looking iguana sitting at the edge of where the patio meets the grass and disappears into rainforest. It’s about the size of a beagle, if a beagle sat lower to the ground and was ugly as fuck. 

“You haven’t seen any iguanas yet?” Richie asks, tilting his head. “There was one sitting at the entrance by the road when the shuttle brought us in. I think they’re all over the place. It’s fine, it’s like a squirrel, it’s not gonna like, bother us. Don’t worry about it, Crocodile Dundee.”

“I feel like it’s staring at me.”

“It’s absolutely not staring at you,” Richie scoffs, downing the last of his mimosa and reaching across to pat the scar on Eddie’s cheek reassuringly. “It probably just lives in that tree. You want more orange juice? I’m gonna go get more of this.”

“Richie. Go chase it off.”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna do that.”

He moves to stand, stretching his arms up high above his head with a groan, listening to his back make a satisfying pop. Eddie’s eyes still haven’t left the corner of the patio.

“How many diseases do you think that thing is carrying?” Eddie asks. “It’s probably not even allowed that close to the dining area.”

“Eddie, my love, it’s not technically close to the dining area like, at all,” Richie points out, pressing a kiss to the top of Eddie’s sunhat. Still, he indulges. Reaching around him, he plucks a piece of pineapple off of Eddie’s plate and tosses it into the bushes. The iguana skitters after it, long tail disappearing into the foliage. “There. Gone.”

“Richie!” Eddie swats at him, eyes wide and incredulous. His mouth is hanging open a little bit. “You can’t feed it! You’re just encouraging it!”

“It’s _ fine _,” Richie repeats, tucking the stem of his glass between his fingers, and scooping up Eddie’s in the other hand. “Relax. I know that’s hard for you, but we’re literally on vacation.”

\--

**[ losers club ]**

**mikey: **i set up a hike tomorrow morning, you guys should come

**ben: **what time are you heading out?

**mikey:** early. sunrise so we can beat the afternoon heat.

**trashmouth!: **disgusting, i’m out. 

**Eds:** Me too. 

**bev:** i’ll come! 

**bev:** are you guys really just going to stay on the resort the entire time we’re here??

**trashmouth!:** undecided but i’m not waking up at the crack of dawn on day 3 fuck that. 

**Bill: **I’m in too. 

**trashmouth!: **someone take pictures so i can post them on twitter. i need the content and eddie wont let me livetweet the wedding.

**trashmouth!: **i kinda want to zipline while we’re here. is that a sunrise activity?

**trashmouth!: **someone set that up. i’m getting married i cant make the arrangements myself.

**Bill: **Asshole

\--

“This is the back up space for the ceremony if the weather decides to go bad on us. This time of year that isn’t likely, but we like to be ready for anything.”

Their wedding co ordinator’s name is Tony. He’s a little younger than them, clean cut and kind, if a little excitable -- he’s already taken out his phone to show them pictures of his new baby, and Richie can’t quite remember how they got on the topic. As he walks them around, chatting as if the three of them are old friends, not once mentioning the lack of a bride, Richie finds himself relieved of an anxiety that he didn’t realize he had been holding onto. 

It’s like that most of the time now. That old familiar fear is quiet enough that he can go weeks without realizing it’s there, but it’s never quite completely gone. He’s learned to look at it as a built in safety feature, rather than let it control his life. It’s working pretty well.

“We’ll have everything set up on the day,” Tony says, smiling at them like he’s just as excited as they are. Which is his job, Richie supposes. “So all you’ll have to do is show up. 

“That’s ideal,” Richie says. “Because giving this dude literally any other wedding related responsibilities might make him blow a gasket. That’s like, the entire reason we’re here, actually -- it was getting to the point where I thought we’d have to roll him in on a stretcher mid-stroke.”

“Wow,” Eddie says. “Thank you for that super useful input, Rich. Maybe you should give him my medical, history, too, I bet that’s just as relevant.”

“You already made me give that to the kitchen,” Richie replies, smiling benignly at the sharp stare he gets in return.

“Okay,” Eddie claps his hands together. “Moving on. I want our dog to be part of the ceremony. I know we paid for flowers on the arch and stuff, is there some way I can get a few flowers the night before to pin to her collar? Back home I had this all worked out with the florist but obviously I’m going to have to improvise. Which is fine.”

Tilting his head, Richie blinks. The thought of Penelope’s fluffy little body trotting down the aisle covered in flowers -- while grossly cute -- is an absurd image that’s he’s not sure he could live down.

“Of course,” Tony replies, accommodating as ever. “I could even make sure we have some sent up to the suite --”

“Sorry, you drafted Penelope? Were you gonna tell me that?” Richie’s interrupts to look at Eddie, half laughing. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“We definitely talked about it,” Eddie says. “Remember, you thought it’d be funny to put her in a little tuxedo, and I said definitely _ not_, she’s a flower girl all the way, and --”

“That was before I even proposed!” Richie says. “I was joking! Eds. Come on. No way.”

Next to them, Tony smiles with the grace of a man who has been involved in more weddings than anyone should ever have to take part of.

“Let me know what you decide, and I can have things arranged for you,” he says, excusing himself from the stare off happening next to him. “And once again, congratulations.”

Eddie crosses his arms, eyebrows raised as they watch Tony exit the scene. He’s got that expression on his face where he _ knows _ they’re about to have an argument about something and he’s challenging Richie to push him about it.

“I’m not having Penelope in the wedding,” Richie says bluntly. “I can think of like a hundred reasons off the top of my head why that’s a bad idea. What if she takes off? What if she takes a shit while the guy is doing the monologue? That sounds like a nightmare waiting to happen.”

“Richie, she will not. And it’s not a monologue, it’s a _ ceremony -- _”

“Whatever,” Richie says. “She’s a dog. And she’s a brat -- neither of us are going to want to deal with her in the middle of all of that. We can take pictures with her after, but no fucking way is she actually going to be in it. That’s where I draw the line.”

“Richie!”

“What if she sees a bird or something and decides to chase it?” Richie demands. “You’re going to make me run after her in the middle of saying vows?”

“She won’t run away,” Eddie says confidently. “She loves us.”

“She loves chaos,” Richie corrects, “And the thrill of the hunt. Despite not physically being capable of killing anything and the much greater likelihood of being killed. What’s gotten into you? Usually you’re hyper-paranoid, and now you want to set her loose in a foreign country?”

Tightening his arms across his chest, Eddie shrugs stiffly. “What if she’s still on a leash?” he offers, pointedly ignoring the latter part of Richie’s comments. “Someone can hold onto her. Bev, maybe.” 

Sighing, Richie rubs at his eyes underneath his glasses. Bev, of all people, is probably the least promising candidate to keep Penelope in line. Penelope was adopted with her name already attached, and maybe they could’ve changed it -- but maybe Richie privately takes delight in how he can shorten her name to an inappropriately familiar moniker when she’s being especially atrocious. He usually keeps it to himself, but he slipped up once, and when he called her Penny in front of Bev… the look she’d given him was nothing short of horrific. 

“That’s morbid, Rich,” she had told him flatly, and she’d never looked at Penelope the same way again.

“Maybe,” he relents, and when he opens his eyes again, Eddie looks decidedly smug. “_Maybe. _I wouldn’t get your fuckin hopes up though, dude.” 

But Eddie’s still smiling like he’s won something. 

\--

Why anyone would pay to be in the tropics, spend hours on a flight to get there, and then opt to only swim in a swimming pool is beyond Richie. The resort pool is constantly filled with people, but the sunny strip of salty ocean is remarkably bare. 

Then again, he has to consider the man he’s marrying, the love of his life, who cringed at the concept of open water and what might dwell within it. As with most things, Eddie gets a pass. Unless the resort is filled to the brim with hypochondriacs, no one else has an excuse. 

Still, Eddie is bundled up on a chair in the shade rather than enjoying the water, his legs stretched in front of him. Mike keeps him company with a deck of cards, while Richie swims beside Bill and gets mouthfuls of salt.

“I’m pretty much blind right now,” Richie reminds, wiping his hand over his damp face. “So don’t let me get lost in a riptide.” 

“That sounds like Eddie talking,” Bill laughs, glancing over to the man in question -- or so Richie assumes. At this point, Bill is a vague, peachy blur. “Is this even fun for him? I mean, he’s not too stressed out?” 

“Are you kidding?” Richie says. “This is the most relaxed he’s been in a year. The first day was hit or miss, but he’s settling in. I don’t think he slept more than six hours in the last six months before we decided to call the whole thing off.”

Raising a hand to wave in Eddie’s general direction, he calls out: “Lookin’ good babe!”

“I know you can’t see me, you blind bitch!” comes the shouted response, and Richie grins.

“I was talking to Mikey,” he yells back, then lowers his voice as he turns back to Bill. “See? He loves it.’”

Bill laughs again, then disappears under the water for a minute. When he comes back up, he stretches out on his back, floating lazily. 

“This was a good idea,” he agrees. “Everyone seems like they’re having fun.”

“Yeah? You must’ve been places like this before, right? Done the whole tropical vacation routine?” Richie asks. “You’ve got the money for it, Billy Bestseller. How does the Losers retreat compare?” 

Bill makes a face. Richie can’t see it but he knows he’s making one. “It’s... better,” he says eventually, with a smile in his voice. “It’s about the people, not the place. You know?” 

“Put that in a book,” Richie taunts, and he can picture the glare. 

“Hey, Richie,” Bill continues after a moment, voice a bit tight. “Do you think, uh...” 

He trails off, and Richie laughs, splashing water at what he’s pretty sure is Bill’s face. It must hit, if the spluttering noise he gets in response is any indication.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Bill attempts again. “Don’t be a dick about it.”

“My dear boy,” Richie drawls, mock offense in his mock accent. “I would never.”

Bill splashes him back, then seems to debate whether or not he trusts that. There’s a beat of silence before he finally speaks.

“You always knew?” Bill asks. “About Eddie?”

“I mean, aside from the time where we all had our memories wiped by the Derry Clown Curse,” Richie replies, frowning. “Yeah. I guess so. _ Knew _maybe isn’t the right word, since I don’t think I ever actually, uh -- figured I’d get to have... this. But yeah. Why?”

Bill shakes his head. 

“I don’t know,” he answers. “You guys, and Ben... it just kind of seems like it was all laid out from the start, you know. Like this lifelong... thing. I don’t think I ever had that with anyone. Ben kept that piece of paper for thirty years, for god’s sake. Talk about carrying a torch.”

“Yeah that guy’s a weirdo,” Richie laughs, pulling a face. “I don’t think that’s a prerequisite to like, having a relationship or whatever. I mean, hey. Bev thought she was in love with you for a long ass time.” Richie leaves a beat of silence before he adds: “How does that feel, by the way? To be a professional writer and beaten out by a childhood poem from a dude who hasn’t made any new material since?”

Bill scoffs, elbowing him under water. “This isn’t about Beverly,” he says. “I’m happy for her and Ben.”

“Shit, man, what is it about then?” Richie asks. Then maybe he realizes his mistake: Bill, freshly divorced and immediately dragged into wedding planning... it must be a sore subject. Wincing a little, he softens. “Look. I don’t think it’s like... mandatory to know it on sight, you know? Sometimes you have to get comfortable first. Or sometimes you don’t know someone right away.”

Bill makes a thoughtful sound, not seeming fully convinced, but he adds. “You grow into it.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Richie agrees, eager to latch onto whatever conclusion will get Bill out of whatever weird mood he’s stuck in. “People change, you know? And I don’t just mean Ben gaining a set of chiseled abs.”

Bill laughs, wiping his hand through his damp hair. “He really wanted to show us all up, huh? Spent all that time preparing.”

“_ Eye of the Tiger _ on repeat for three decades,” Richie agrees jokingly. Bill’s quiet in the way that means he’s thinking too hard, and Richie reaches out to grip his shoulder. “Anyways, don’t... stress about it. I uh -- I spent a long time wishing I’d gotten it right the first time around, but realistically I probably wasn’t ready then, you know? I needed to be wisened by a lifetime of misery and fuck it up a few more times.”

“I always forget that part,” Bill says sympathetically. “Fucking Derry, man.”

“Oh yeah, the second time was a write off. _ That _ does piss me off, I just can’t think about it too hard. I could have been having the best sex of my life like, ten years earlier.”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

They float in silence for a minute, and Richie stares off at the blurry spot that he’s still pretty sure is Eddie on the shoreline. 

“Still,” he muses eventually. “Like. I never thought I’d be doing the whole marriage thing, especially not halfway through my forties, but now I’m stoked. I_ definitely_ didn’t think Eddie would be into it after his first round. Sometimes even if you do know someone, what you want kind of... shifts around over time I think. Takes awhile.”

Bill rubs his face, laughing into his hands before sinking further down into the water.

“Hey, that’s awfully sincere Trashmouth.”

“Yeah that’s my quota for the year,” Richie snorts, licking salt water off his lips. “You want any more relationship advice, you go hit up Hanscom. He loves that stuff. You guys can paint each other’s nails, watch _ Notting Hill _or some shit. He’d eat it up.”

He pushes the wet mess of his hair away from his face, cupping some water to rinse sand off his shoulders. 

“I’m gonna go in,” Richie says. “That spicy mango tequila thing they make at the bar is calling my name. You coming?”

Bill shakes his head.

“I’ll meet up with you guys in a few.”

“Bueno,” Richie answers. “Don’t sit out here thinking for too long, or I’ll send Mikey out to drag you back in.”

Bill makes a vague noise that Richie can’t decipher, and waves him off. 

“Go makeout with your fiancé,” he says.

“That is indeed the plan. After the bar.”

He sloshes blindly towards the shore, using the splotch of Eddie’s blue sunwrap as a beacon. 

\--

“I think Bill might be getting back together with Audra.”

From above him, Eddie hums, the vibration of it transferring from Eddie’s chest to his own cheek. Eddie smells like sunblock and pineapple juice, and Richie is halfway to a nap, with his head resting on the soft material of his shirt. He can hear the ocean in the distance.

“What makes you say that,” Eddie asks, setting his e-reader down. “Did he mention it?”

Making a vague noise, Richie moves his head back and forth in an approximation of a shake. He smiles as he feels Eddie’s fingers brush a curl away from his forehead and out of the way of his glasses.

“No, we just had a weird conversation yesterday. He was like, asking me about us and stuff,” he shrugs. “He seemed a little -- you know. Bill. Like he was thinking about something.”

“He was on his phone the entire flight,” Eddie muses. “Maybe. I’ll ask Bev when we go to the spa later, maybe he’s said something to her about it.”

They fall back into comfortable silence, and Richie is nearly asleep when he feels Eddie’s body tense underneath him.

“Richie,” Eddie hisses softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Richie, wake up.”

“Mm?”

He opens one eye, peering up at Eddie from underneath his sunglasses. Eddie’s jaw is tense, his eyes wide, and worry swoops in tightly to Richie’s chest. Sinking one hand into the sand to push himself up, he looks around.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

Eddie points. A few feet away from them, tongue flicking at the hot air, is another iguana.

“Oh my god,” Richie groans, sinking back down against Eddie’s body. “Would you give it a rest? They _ live _here.”

“It’s the same one,” Eddie says, still whispering for some reason. “That’s the same one from the buffet! It’s looking at me again!”

“No fucking way is that the same iguana, dude,” Richie says. 

“It _ is. _Look at it! Richie, it’s coming closer.”

“I’m not indulging this,” Richie tells him, settling in and closing his eyes again. “Just ignore it. Read your book.”

“Do you think it can smell Penelope on me? Is that why it’s following me around?” Eddie jostles his shoulder briskly. “Oh god, Richie -- is it trying to get to Penelope?”

“Yeah, I’m sure there’s one specific iguana that’s been hunting down pomeranians. It’s been stalking you, Eddie Kaspbrak, so that it can break into our suite and kill our dog. That’s what’s going on here. Do you hear yourself?”

“Fine!” Eddie scolds, shoving at Richie’s cheek until he rolls off of him. “Fine. Be that way. I’ll do it myself.”

Before Richie can even say anything, Eddie is on his feet. Really, stupid as the situation may be, Richie has to admire Eddie’s small acts of bravery: from attacking a killer clown with a fence post, to shooing away an iguana with his beach towel. 

The lizard isn’t impressed; Richie truly can’t imagine why. It sits its fat body right in place, staring unblinkingly up at him. 

“Go on,” Eddie tells it. “Get! Come on! Move, motherfucker!” 

From his cozy position on the beach chair, Richie has a great view as Eddie creeps closer and closer to the iguana. For a moment, Richie thinks he actually has it beat: the ugly thing slowly lumbers upward, and starts to move --

\--just in the opposite direction that Eddie wants. For as chunky as the thing is, it moves very fast: its gnarled, sharply clawed little toes skittering hurriedly towards Eddie rather than away from him, running right across Eddie’s bare feet before burying away into the bushes. 

For a moment, Eddie is completely frozen, skin pale and lips thin with a barely contained scream. 

“Fuck,” Richie mutters to himself. 

“Richie,” he manages faintly. “It touched me.” 

\--

**[ losers club ]**

**Eds: **I’m calling off the wedding.

**Bill: **Again?

**trashmouth!: **he isn’t.

**Eds: **Yes I am. I’m calling off the wedding and I’m flying home tomorrow with Penelope 

**trashmouth!: **oh my godddddddddd

**bev: **what happened?? is everything ok?

**Eds: **Richie let me get attacked by an iguana and now I probably have avian flu

**mikey: **what?

**ben: **omg.

**trashmouth!: **an iguana walked on his foot. he’s fine. 

**Eds:** This is why I’m calling off the wedding!!! Because you’re a jackass!

**[ ben changed the group name:** ** _ iguana survivors support group_ ** ** ]**

**Eds: **FUCK OFF

**ben: **hahaha

**Bill: **Lol.

**Eds: **You’re all the fucking worst people I’ve ever met. 

**Eds: **Have fun laughing it up. I’m telling the resort the event theme's changed. Hope you enjoy my tropical funeral.

\--

The rest of the day is spent cajoling Eddie into leaving the room to eat dinner with everyone. He soaks his feet in a bath of antiseptic and sea salt for an hour, and then makes Richie examine them for any hint of a scratch, just in case the lizard’s claws broke skin and infected him with some unknown reptile disease.

There isn’t a scrape on him. He’s fine.

When Richie finally manages to drag him down to the buffet, he’s wearing thick wool socks inside his sandals, and he jumps every time a bush they pass by rustles even a little bit. 

“There he is!” Mike exclaims, smiling wide as the two of them appear in the dining area. The rest of the Losers follow suit, Bill giving a whoop, Bev claps, Ben grins apologetically. Eddie scowls at all of them, and then back at Richie, who has an arm draped around him.

“I want it on the record that Richie’s a pussy, and that none of this would have happened if he’d just listened to me,” Eddie complains, sitting himself down in a chair and immediately reaching for the pitcher of water as if to pour himself a stiff drink. Richie rolls his eyes.

“Noted,” Beverly says seriously. “I’ll make sure to write it into my wedding speech.”

“You aren’t actually doing a speech, right?” Richie says. “If all of you stand up and say something we’ll be there all day. I’ll cry. Ben will _ definitely _cry. It’ll be ugly all around.”

“Wouldn’t want to get too sentimental, right Rich?” Bill laughs. He has his elbow leaned on the back of Mike’s chair, and his face is warm and loose in a way that betrays he’s had a few drinks already. “You’re only getting married.”

“After a lifetime of loneliness,” Eddie adds. “To your best friend, who saved you from certain death.”

“No big deal though,” Bill grins.

Richie flips them both off.

“Alright, alright,” Ben cuts in mildly, ever the mediator. “I’m hungry, are we gonna eat or what? We’ve been waiting to see if you guys would make an appearance.”

All together they fill their plates and they eat, crowded comfortably around the table. The sun’s been down for a while, and about half an hour into dinner a band comes out to play under the paper lanterns strung up around the patio. Even Eddie can’t stay in a bad mood, and before long he’s leaning contendly into Richie’s side, laughing at some story Bill is telling about the hike they’d been on the day before.

Not for the first time, Richie’s struck by how happy he is, and how that feeling has slowly started to become familiar to him. Ten years ago, he would have never thought he’d end up here, surrounded by such unconditional love and belonging, amping up to be someone’s husband. It’s a little fucking mindblowing, and as he listens to Bev sing badly along to the tune from the band, and to glasses clink, and to Eddie laughing against his neck, his throat starts to feel tight.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, interrupting. “Hey, maybe it’s ‘cause I’ve had a few drinks but, uh --”

“Speech, speech, speech,” says Mike, tossing an arm around Bill’s shoulder companionably to try and get him to join in on the chant. 

“Fuck off, Mikey,” Richie laughs. “Shut the fuck up. It’s not a speech. I just want to say that I’m, uh -- I’m really happy to be here. I’m happy all you guys are here, and I’m like. Grateful. I’m probably gonna end up puking on the actual wedding day, so I figured I should say it now. Thank you. I’m so like... relieved that you guys are in my life.”

“You’ve said that before,” Bev remarks, smiling quietly as she tilts her head at him. “When we all saw each other again for the first time. I remember liking it then. Relieved.” She gives his arm a squeeze. “That’s a nice word, Richie.”

“We should toast,” Eddie says, retrieving his glass of lemon water and raising it. “To the Losers club.”

“To the happy couple,” Bill points out. “You guys are getting _ married _.”

“To love in all its forms, then,” suggests Ben, and Richie makes a gagging noise. “...Yeah, yeah.”

They toast, six glasses clinking together, and as everyone takes a drink, Eddie leans in close.

“I love you,” he says, burying his nose against the hair at Richie’s temple before pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

This time Ben is the one that gags from across the table, and Richie pulls a face at him.

\--

Richie spends the night before the wedding in Bill’s room, mostly trying not to be sick. It had been his idea, initially -- one little tradition he’d thought was worth keeping, to make the whole thing feel more real. He had wanted seeing Eddie for the first time day-of to feel like a punch to the face. 

In a good way, obviously.

For the first time, as he does the perimeter of Bill’s room with shaking hands, he kind of regrets passing the whole organizing thing off to resort staff. Maybe if he was spending the night panicking over having enough party favours or whatever, he’d have less time to feel so fucking anxious over nothing.

“Richie,” Bill says from the couch, watching him pace around the room like some kind of caged cat. “Do you even know what you’re worried about?”

Since leaving that hospital in Derry with Eddie in the passenger seat of his car, Richie can count the number of times he’s slept alone in a bed on one hand. It’s crazy, how your brain just completely forgets how to do normal shit like that. He spent his entire life sleeping alone, and now it’s like the whole routine’s just been wiped out by four years of Eddie Kaspbrak.

That’s just one thing making him feel weird. He doesn’t say it to Bill, who’s probably still adjusting to that whole scenario post-divorce. Instead he says:

“What if I fuck up my vows?”

“You talk in front of people for a living, Rich,” Bill says kindly. “You aren’t going to fuck up your vows. Besides, it’ll just be us there.”

“What if Eddie’s vows are like, way better than mine and I let him down?” Richie counters. “That dude is way more emotionally available than I am. He’s way better at that shit.”

“First of all, I really don’t think I would say _ that, _” Bill answers, trying and failing to hide the way his mouth twitches. “But I can look them over, if you want. I’ll tell you if they’re bad.”

Richie chews on the offer for a minute, feeling uncharacteristically self conscious about giving them up -- especially to Number One on the New York Times Bestseller Billy Denbrough. They’d agreed to follow a basic format, to try and keep the whole thing flowing properly, but there’s still the fear that the words he’s written will fall flat and disappointing. 

“Come on,” says Bill. “Let me look.”

“Alright, alright,” Richie relents, moving to dig through the bag of stuff he’d brought over from his own suite. “Don’t give me shit about it. Just tell me if they’re bad enough to make Eddie walk out on me at the altar, okay? I just started writing my own shit like, two years ago so I’m still not great at it.”

“Your new stuff is way funnier than your old shit,” Bill disagrees, reaching out his hands for the folded up piece of paper that Richie is still clutching protectively. “Although if this is a comedy routine, Eddie will be pissed. Hand it over, Tozier.”

Groaning, Richie passes the paper over, before turning quickly away to pour himself a glass of scotch while Bill pulls out his reading glasses and settles in.

“I’m scratching this thing about his mom,” Bill says immediately, pulling a pen out of his pocket and doing just that before Richie can stop him. 

“What! Hey!” Richie argues. “That’s to lighten the mood!”

“You don’t need to lighten the mood at your _ wedding, _ Richie,” Bill says, fixing Richie with the same disapproving look he’s been perfecting since age eleven. “He’ll kick your ass.”

“It’s our thing!”

“Not tomorrow it’s not.”

Richie slumps onto an armchair, nursing his drink. He waits in anxiously as Bill reads over the rest, wishing not for the first time that he could just ask Eddie for his approval outright. 

“I could probably still catch a flight home,” he laments, squinting at his glass. “Or maybe I could hike up into the rainforest. Live out the rest of my days with the spider-monkeys until I get too old and disgusting to keep up with them and they leave me to die alone in the jungle.”

“Richie,” Bill says, folding up the slip of paper, and oh, god. Richie can’t tell what that expression means at all.

“That’s probably the best I can hope for, at this point, right?” he continues. “Tell Eddie I love him, and he deserves someone who can put that into words. Tell him I’ll be thinking of him every time I feel those creepy little monkey fingers on my scalp, picking lice out of my hair.”

“Richie,” Bill says again, more firmly. “These are _ good.” _

Richie pauses.

“I’m still a little perplexed that you thought the joke about having sex with his mom was appropriate, but the rest is...” Bill nods. “It’s good. It feels good in here.” Bill knocks knuckles against his own chest, over his heart. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Richie lets out a heavy exhale, trying to ignore the way his hand is shaking around his glass. He does trust Bill to be honest with him, especially when it matters, and his approval is steadying. It doesn’t do a whole lot to settle the anxiety rattling around in his bones, but it does at least make him feel a little better.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “O fearless leader.”

Bill looks like he’s about to reply when there’s a knock at the door. Richie is on his feet in a second, eager for a distraction, before Bill can even move. Despite himself, he kind of hopes that it’s Eddie coming to check in-- which is pretty pathetic. It’s a good thing they’re getting hitched, because apparently Richie can barely go three hours without being attached at the hip.

It isn’t Eddie’s face that greets him when he opens the door. Instead, he finds himself looking at Mike, who’s holding a bottle of red wine and looking just as surprised to see Richie as Richie is to see him.

“Hi,” Richie says suspiciously. “Did Eddie send you to make sure I wasn’t getting cold feet? Because you can tell him these puppies are as hot as ever. We could get this shindig going right now if he’s so worried about it.”

Mike blinks, probably taken offguard by being so immediately called out, casting a quick glance over Richie’s shoulder towards the inside of the room.

“Uh, yeah,” he answers, scratching the top of his head sheepishly. “That’s -- you got me.”

“Mikey?” comes Bill’s voice from the inside of the room. “Richie, who’s at the door?”

“It’s just Mike,” he confirms, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Reaching forward, he takes the bottle from Mike’s hands and brings the label up to examine it. 

“Yeah, that’s... for you,” Mike says. “Ah, a pre-wedding present.”

“Thanks but I don’t usually drink red wine,” Richie sighs as he tucks the bottle under his arm anyways. Then a thought occurs to him, and he huffs: “Was Eddie talking about my heart again?”

“Uh --”

“Nevermind. Thanks, man. Hey, you want to come in and chill? Bill and I are just hanging out.”

Mike shakes his head, tucking his hands into his pockets and glancing down the hallway with an awkwardness that doesn’t suit him.

“Nope,” he answers with a smile. “I did my job. I’ll leave you guys to it. I’ll, uh, tell Eddie you said hello.”

“Tell him I’ll see him tomorrow,” Richie says. “Directly on time. With bells on.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mike says again. “Good night, Richie.”

He nearly runs into Bill on his way back to the livingroom, turning the corner and suddenly coming face to face with him on his way towards the door. 

“Mikey’s gone?” Bill asks, then immediately glancing at the bottle: “Is that a merlot?”

“Yeah, you want it?” Richie asks, passing the bottle over by the neck. “I’m too deep to switch to wine.”

“Uh, sure,” Bill says, with a crease in his brow. “I love merlot.”

\--

**[ iguana survivors support group ]**

**Eds: **Bill can you come down the hall? I need your help.

**Bill: **Yes. I thought mikey took your phone away??

**Eds: **I needed it for my medication alarms so I made him give it back. Does Richie have his?

**Bill: **No I took it like you asked so you guys couldn’t text each other last night.

**Eds: **Oh. 

**Bill: **were you texting him?

**Eds: **Are you coming down or not? Tell him I’ll trade you for Bev.

**Bill: **Yeah, let’s switch.

**bev: **on my way <3

\--

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

The ceremony area is set further down towards the edge of the resort grounds, away from the noise of the pool and the bar. It’s a beautiful spot overlooking the beach, with a path leading up to a sandalwood terrace. Bev’s shown him pictures on her phone of the set up -- the arch lined with white flowers, the chic sandalwood chairs. The resort crew’s done a fantastic job: it’s beautiful, and simple, exactly how it looked on the website. 

Now all Richie has to do is get his ass there.

“You aren’t going to throw up,” Beverly says again, rubbing a hand between his shoulder blades. She’s wearing a flowy blue sundress, and she has a flower pinned back into her hair. Richie wishes he felt confident that he looked half as good. “It’s just Eddie waiting for you out there.”

“Okay,” Richie says, patting his breast pocket down again for the fourth time, just to make sure he hasn’t lost his vows. “Right.”

Bill had cut him off shortly after Mike’s visit the night before, which is the only way that Richie knows he’s sweating from anxiety, instead of hangover. Thank god for that, because for as sure as he is that Eddie will be happy to see him, he’s also sure that he would not have lived through showing up in that state. 

“Richie,” Bev says, putting a hand on either one of his shoulders and looking at him dead on. “Honey --”

“Can I bum a smoke?” he asks plaintively, interrupting whatever pep talk she’s about to give him. He’s got five minutes.

“No fucking way,” she answers. “You get up there smelling like cigarettes and your future husband will kill us both.”

She’s right. Four minutes.

“Hang on,” Richie says, feeling his stomach turn and retreating quickly towards the bathroom in the bridal cabana. “One sec --”

He does, in fact, throw up.

\--

Bev gets him out on the walkway only two minutes late, and with his teeth freshly brushed. Richie is pretty sure she’s an angel sent to earth. She kisses his cheek as they step out into the open air, squeezing his hand and smiling: “See you on the other side, Rich.”

Then she’s off to join Ben in her seat, and Richie is on his own. 

There are eight steps between himself and where Eddie waits for him at the end of the aisle. Richie knows, because he made himself count them out when Tony was giving them the tour at the beginning of the trip. In all the ways they talked about running the ceremony, all the mock walkthroughs they did when they toured venues back home, it was always Eddie waiting and Richie getting himself there. They didn’t talk about it, specifically, but it felt right. 

For all the times in his life that Richie ran away from him, deliberately or not, he wants this to start by choosing to walk towards him.

“Eight steps,” Richie says to himself, quiet and under his breath. “You can do it, buddy.”

And then he starts walking.

He’s not sure what he expects to feel when he sees Eddie standing in the near distance. It’s been twelve hours since he saw him last, and looking at him now it could have been a minute or it could have been a lifetime -- the relief of coming home is the same. The sight of him, standing straight in a tailored suit and tie, all framed in soft white, hits like a punch to the gut. As Richie steps up onto the terrace, Eddie cracks the barest of smiles, quiet and secret like it’s only for Richie to see, and suddenly it feels like he’s staring at the sun.

“Hi,” Richie whispers, his fingers itching to reach out and grab Eddie’s hand.

“Hi,” comes the response, just as soft.

He’s not sure how long the ceremony lasts. It feels a little bit like a dream; he can hear the officiant saying words, but he can barely make them out. His chest feels tight, and the only thing he can focus on is Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, like an anchor in a storm, like a bright spot in the dark. When his cue comes for vows, Richie nearly misses it.

“Shit,” he says, and he can hear a soft laugh from the chairs. Eddie is still smiling, and Richie clears his throat.

“I had originally, uh, opened with a joke,” he says, pulling the creased piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolding it so he can follow along. That gets another laugh, and Richie smiles tightly. “Since that’s what I’m used to. To try and, uh, ease myself into this. But some loser set me straight, so I guess I’ll just go right into it.”

His hands are shaking around the paper, but as he glances up with Eddie, the words start to free themselves from his throat.

“Eddie, I’ve loved you,” Richie says, his voice sounding hoarse and low to his own ears. “Since before I knew what loving someone meant. You were this loud little twerp, and you argued with me like someone made it your job, and something about you hit me right in the fuc -- right in the chest.

“When we got older, and we were apart from each other, I still felt you with me. Or, I guess -- I felt a hole where you should be. A lot of people talk about being half of something else, and I don’t know if I believe in that. But I do know that when I’m not with you I feel like I jumped a track. Like I’m all off balance. And when I’m with you I feel like me, but also like, uh -- like a better version of me. Like the version of myself I want to be.

“You’re so brave,” Richie continues, wetting his lips. He barely look at Eddie now, his chest too dangerously tight. “Even when you don’t see that in yourself. You make me want to be brave, too. You’re my favourite person in the world, even when you’re driving me up the wall, and I want to keep arguing with you forever. Thanks for putting up with me, Eds.”

He takes a breath, letting his hand with the paper fall to his side. Across from him, Eddie looks like he’s trembling, those dark eyes wide, and suddenly Richie is so worried that he’s going to start crying that he can’t help but pipe up one more time:

“Also. I’ve trapped you here now. Legally. So you can’t change your mind about it.”

It’s just enough to unfreeze Eddie where he stands, his mouth cracking open in a wide, bright grin as he laughs outloud. One hand comes up to rub at his own eyes, while the other retrieves his own vows: a neat little cue card tucked into his jacket, as opposed to Richie’s scribbled-on sheet.

“You’re the worst,” Eddie laughs, but he sniffles too, and even though he knows he isn’t supposed to Richie can’t help but reach across and clasp his arm for a second. “Okay. Alright.”

Eddie takes a second to steady himself, eyes flicking from Richie back to down to his cue card, and he inhales.

“Okay,” Eddie utters faintly, as if coaching himself forward. He clears his throat and begins. “Richie. Uh. We’ve known each other for a long time. That comes with a lot of shared experiences. Like, you know, how we’ve both been inside your mom.”

Richie blinks, and Eddie stares unflinchingly back at him. There’s only a second of sheer, deafening silence before chaos breaks loose. Bev makes a noise like a squawk that she can’t fully muffle behind her hand, and Mike is near hysterics -- with Bill not far behind him. 

“Bill!” Richie croaks, glaring daggers at him where he sits. “You son of a bitch. I _ told _ you--” 

It takes considerable effort on Tony’s part (bless his soul) to calm everyone down again. Once everyone finally settles, Eddie, looking innocent as he straightens his cards, goes back to it. 

“You’re an asshole,” Eddie tells him. “I’m allowed to say that because it’s the truth, and because I love you anyway. Maybe it’s because you’re an asshole that you’ve never treated me like I’m something you could break. That seems like a weird thing to like in a person, but I always did -- when I was with you I was never some sick kid, I was just your friend.”

Richie smiles a little, ducking his head. 

“I don’t know when I realized I loved you. I don’t think there was one big moment. I just kind of grew into it, loving you more every day, until eventually a world where you weren’t beside me seemed impossible.” 

Glancing up to meet his eyes, Eddie continues.

“And we both know the world tried anyways.”

“Fuck that,” Richie says unthinkingly, and Eddie clears his throat. In the audience, someone coughs. 

“...I’m grateful every day that despite that, all my paths led back to you,” Eddie continues pointedly, although the smile in the corner of his mouth says he might like Richie’s version better. “I love that you never know when to give up on a joke, and that you don’t let me get away anything too easily. I love how safe our life together is, and how you never make me wonder how you feel about me.”

“I love giving you hell, because someone has to,” he continues finally. “I promise I’m going to do it until my voice stops working, and then I’m going to start writing stuff down for you instead. So get ready for that.”

There’s scattered laughs, and the corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches as he lowers his cue card.. “Anyway. That’s all of it. I didn’t think I’d get through the whole thing without having an asthma attack so I don’t really have a good line to end on,” he admits. “I love you.”

It’s Richie who laughs now, pushing his fingers up under his glasses to rub his face, and finding that they come away damp. He’s not sure when he started crying, just that he doesn’t really stop for the rest of the ceremony. Tony says a few more words, and it’s all Richie can do to keep his voice from cracking over the ‘I do’s.

Eddie’s gaze doesn’t leave him the whole time, bright and fond, and smiling in the sunlight and Richie wants to remember him like this forever. As Eddie slides the simple band they’d picked out together onto his hand, he thinks his ribs my crack open from the sheer, raw relief that floods through him.

“It is with great pleasure that I now pronounce you legally married,” Tony says finally his smile warm and genuine. “I invite you now to seal your vows with a kiss.”

Richie isn’t sure who moves first. His hands find Eddie’s face at the same time that Eddie steps forward, and as their lips meet, he can hear a cheer go up. Eddie, his Eddie is smiling under his palms, and Richie can’t help but laugh against his mouth, dizzy with the reality of what just happened.

“Hey,” Eddie laughs as they draw back, his face clear in a way that it so rarely is. “Hey Richie, we just got married dude -- Richie, _ hey, _stop crying asshole --”

Richie just kisses him again.

\--

They take their first dance on the patio, swaying along together as the band from a few nights ago plays through a slightly off-tempo rendition of a Sinatra song. Eddie’s body fits against his like they were meant to do it, and the intense buzz of excitement from the ceremony is now a comfortable, perpetual hum in Richie’s veins.

“We never made a decision about our names,” Eddie says, with his hand clasped in Richie’s hand, stepping carefully with him.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Richie snorts. “I think we probably did make a decision about it.”

“I still think Richie Kaspbrak sounds pretty good.”

“I have a brand to maintain,” Richie argues. “Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Kaspbrak doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. Think of the merch! Besides, you don’t even have any family to pressure you about it, whereas _ I -- _”

“Did you really just use my dead parents as justification for that?” Eddie says, raising his eyebrows incredulously. “Really? Just in case you forgot, Eds, that you’re the last of your line and alone in the world --”

“You are _ not,_” Richie laughs. “That was the whole point of today! _ Alone in the world _my ass.”

“_ I’m _going to call you Richie Kaspbrak.”

“You could be Eds Tozier,” Richie suggests instead. “It’s short and sweet, just like you.”

Eddie looks at him with a long suffering stare, waiting.

“Maybe not sweet,” Richie finishes inevitably, grinning despite the predictability, and Eddie remains unimpressed.

Despite the lack of a private dinner, Richie did make cake arrangements. It had, afterall, been the one thing that Eddie was interested in back home. It took a little bit of extra organizing, and it certainly isn’t one of those elaborate monstrosities from one of Eddie’s wedding blogs, but it’s a cake -- white, with a couple of tiers, and a goofy plastic topper.

Gluten free, nut-free, blah blah blah.

“Okay, on three,” Ben grins, aiming his phone at them while Richie waits in eager anticipation.

“One,” Bill calls.

“Two!” says Bev, clapping her hands together in front of her.

They don’t make it to three before Eddie is gleefully smushing cake against Richie’s mouth, using his thumb to smear icing across his lips. Richie returns the gesture in kind and Ben snaps pictures, laughing as Eddie splutters on fondant. 

\--

Later, after the sun has gone down and everyone has mellowed out, they sit together on the patio. The band is out again, still playing slow and quiet, and the waves crash in the distance. Eddie has his chair pushed right up against Richie’s, and he’s leaning over the arm to lay his head on Richie’s shoulder. 

Every now and then Richie will catch him admiring the band on his left hand, white gold instead of yellow like his old one, and something warm will creep over him.

It’s been a perfect day -- better than he could have hoped for. Certainly better than he figured it was going to go when they’d been making lists in LA, biting at each other over nothing. He’s happier than he’s ever been, a sense of peace settling in, but in the back of his mind something still lingers.

“I wish Stan were here,” Richie says softly, surprising himself. 

He hasn’t been letting himself think about it, but it always strikes him when they’re together -- that they’re six out of a set of seven.

“He’d have been so proud of himself,” Ben answers quietly, smiling sadly where he sits across the table. Bev mirrors Eddie, leaning into his shoulder, her fingers linked through his. “For being the first one to call you guys out.”

“Proud of you, too,” Bev adds, and Richie smiles gratefully at her.

They sit in reflective silence for a few minutes, all thinking the same thing. Richie traces the bumps of Eddie’s knuckles, and as he turns his face to press a kiss to the top of his head, something catches his eye.

A few feet away, closer to wear the band plays, Bill and Mike are moving slowly together across the patio. They don’t seem to notice the rest of them; Bill’s head is resting against Mike’s chest, their hands held carefully together. Mike’s hand is at Bill’s waist.

“Holy shit,” Richie says, his voice quiet with awe more than respect for privacy. “When the _ fuck _did that happen?”

“I thought you said he was getting back with Audra!” Eddie hisses, suddenly sitting upright.

“I guess I misread it? Holy shit. I’m so stupid --” Richie’s voice is slowly picking up volume, as he tries to bite back the cackle that threatens to overtake him. “The _ wine. _Eds -- did you send Mikey to check on me last night?”

“What?” Eddie asks. “No? Why would I --”

“Shhh --” Beverly hushes them. “Oh my god.”

Only Ben folds his arms across his chest, looking pleased with himself.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” he says. “Mikey’s always looked at Bill like that, ever since we were kids. Like he hung the freaking moon.”

Richie exchanges a look with Bev, and they’re obviously thinking the same thing -- that hardly means anything, considering that they’d _ all _looked at Bill like that growing up. That’s practically the entry fee to the club.

“I think it’s kind of sweet,” Eddie says eventually, settling back down against Richie’s shoulder and closing his eyes. 

“Sure me too. It’s really sweet that Billy’s only a few hours away from breaking out of his dry streak.” Richie answers. “Do you think either of them have ever -- is this like their gay awakening? I’m not offering lessons on my wedding night. Although I could. I’m awesome in bed, right Eds --”

“Beep beep.”

\--

They spend their last few days actually getting off of the resort. There’s a ziplining expedition that Eddie sits out of, and a tour around the bay on one of those glass-bottomed boats -- Eddie even snorkels a little bit, although he stays absurdly close to the shore and keeps getting the rest of them to check the seal on his mask. Ben and Mike frequently disappear on rented fishing dingy, sitting out on the water and drinking beer, which the others tease them mercilessly for. 

By the time the last day rolls around, Richie is so sunsoaked that not even packing up can stress him out. He’s married, he’s happy, and half his body content is salt water. He’s planning on sleeping the whole flight home, and then having sex with his husband in the bed that they share in California as soon as they get there.

“You got everything?” Richie asks, popping Penelope’s carrier up onto the stack of luggage he’s preparing to wheel out towards the shuttle. “Carry on? I’ve got the suit bags here.”

Eddie does a quick scan of the pile, before snapping his fingers.

“I forgot --”

“Toiletry bag,” Richie finishes. “Every _ time, _fucker.”

Eddie zips off, and Richie leans against the doorframe to wait, giving a lazy wave to Ben who passes him in the hallway. Vacations are nice, he’s decided. They’re a completely different animal than dragging Eddie around with him for work. 

He’s wondering, vaguely, if he can convince Eddie that this didn’t count as a honeymoon when he hears a shriek coming from the bathroom, and ice freezes in his veins.

“Eddie?” he calls out automatically, although his feet are already moving. “Eddie --”

Eddie stands outside of the bathroom, a mixture of fear and furious shock on his face. His neck is flushed pink, and he jabs a finger in the air, pointing through the open door towards the bathtub.

“I told you!” he yells. “I fucking told you!”

Sitting in the bathtub under the open window, a fat igunana eyes Richie with a sort of detached victory.

“Smug fucking bastard,” Richie utters in disbelief.

“It’s the same fucking one!”

And okay. Maybe Richie will give him that.

\--

**[ second wives club ]**

**[ mikey has been added to the group ]**

**ben: **welcome 

**mikey: **is this a secret group chat? 

**ben:** not really. i think it’s only a technically group chat now that there’s a third person.

**trashmouth!: **one of us one of us

**trashmouth!: **eds and bev got divorced like within a couple months of each other so mostly me and haystack just texted each other to bitch.

**ben: **and swap advice. it was actually kind of nice. 

**ben: **it saved me from worrying about stressing bev out. 

**trashmouth!:** losers business still goes in the other chat. this is strictly for venting about your s/o’s shitty ex. 

**mikey: **right. 

**mikey:** well thanks guys. i don’t think i have anything to complain about though.

**mikey: **audra’s a good person. it’s a different situation.

**trashmouth!: **gross goodbye michael.

**[ mikey has been removed from the group ]**

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! i love getting comments and hearing what you guys enjoyed, so please don't be shy <3
> 
> mucho gracias to @richietozxer on twitter, [who i jacked the gucci slides joke from](https://twitter.com/richietozxer/status/1181324212662784001?s=21) :*
> 
> follow me  
twitter:@unfinishedduet  
tumblr: @richtoziers


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